the roots of mine; I think it makes them bluer; but imagine you asking me anything about gardening! . . . Yes, Hatty dear? Why, I guess you'd just call it old-rose Swiss with white dots. You're not going to describe this old rag in the paper, I hope! . . . What is it, Jodie? Well, just go and tell Lizzie. . . . Mrs. Baylow!"
Thank goodness, Mr. and Mrs. Driggs were having a good time. She had asked them nervously, for she knew Mrs. Driggs was touchy about being invited only when no one else or everyone else was to be there. "Well, we'll try to get over," Mrs. Driggs had said, doubtfully; but she had been in her mauve silk dress with the Medici collar, and her hat foaming with mauve ostrich tips half an hour before the Misses Mortimer went through the gate of 29 Chestnut Street, an hour and a quarter before the Cedarmere coupé drew up and she cried to Mr. Driggs, napping uneasily among the claw-footed golden chairs and tables and blood-red brocade that made the Driggs parlor look' like the lion house at feeding time: "Come on, Papa, we're going now!" Once in the studio, Mr. Driggs went straight as a homing dove to the punch bowl. His wife was giving everyone high handshakes and saying, "Pleased to meet you." Her face gleamed with heat and pleasure; her fat pearl earrings bobbed and trembled; dark crescents appeared on the mauve silk under her arms.
